


Leave the questions unanswered, NC-17, RPF, Chris/Karl

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Embedded Images, LiveJournal, M/M, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Leave the questions unanswered, NC-17, RPF, Chris/Karl

More Captain/Doctor comment-fic porn for the following pics for my Team Jones bbs. The comments prompts called for, variously, bb!Fine porn, cowboy!Karl porn, Brokeback!Karl/Chris with a hopeful ending of some kind. There's an infidelity warning, also, bb!Fine smoking, because yeah, you need a warning for that. Image-heavy, of course. Also, NC-17.

He first notices the kid dismounting after a long day of shooting dull scenes of roping—boring shots, really, but the director’s all into verisimilitude, and he’s dead tired by the time he gets back to the main part of the set. He feels like he’s got the thousand-mile stare going on, the kind where you’re so fucking tired that all you can look at is what’s right in front of you—and what’s in front of Karl is just this. A young man—no, a boy—in a beige western plaid shirt and worn blue jeans is leaning against a fence, hands in his pockets. His hair is close-cropped, and he’s got a silver I.D. bracelet surrounding one wrist. He’s not in costume, that much is clear—the wardrobe department is taking this thing seriously, and this kid wouldn’t pass in the background, not even a mile back as an extra.

What gets Karl, though, isn’t the lack of costume—it’s the lackadaisical laze on the fence, the half-lidded not-smirk on his face that nonetheless says this kid is sure of himself in a way that Karl simply wasn’t, not at whatever age this-- _pubescent_ \-- is.

It’s unexpectedly sexy, and his cock jumps in his pants, nothing he wants outlined by the goddamned fucking chaps on his wardrobe—because posture aside, the kid’s gorgeous in an unexepected, un-Hollywood way, pale skin and blue eyes and hair that’s not blond and not brown—and while he’s still got some of the soft face of a boy in the lines of his bones, there’s stubble there too, and the look in his eyes—he’s every bit as assessing of Karl as he gets off his horse and gathers his things as anyone checking Karl out when he first walks into a bar.

Truth be told, it’s more than a little bit creepy. And yet—his cock gets even stiffer inside his pants.

“You’re Urban, right?” the kid says, pushing off of the fence where he’s been leaning, one scarred brown boot scuffing forward into the dirt as he comes to stand about three feet from Karl.

Alright—perhaps he’s not _quite_ so assured.

“Most people call me Karl,” he answers. “And who might you be?”

“Pine. Chris,” he says, sticking his hand out, the one not circled by the bracelet. It’s a large hand, a man’s hand, a little a-gangle with the rest of the body he’s still growing into. He’s a few inches shorter than Karl, and Karl’s got to outweigh him by at least 3 stone, maybe just a bit more. The kid’s built like a long-distance runner, all whippet-muscle and lean. “I’m supposed to be the minister’s kid in the school shootout tomorrow?” he says, his voice rising, before he tamps it down again and looks Karl in the eye. “Just wanted to track you down before then, say hello, assure you that I do know how to actually handle a gun.”

And just like that, the assurance is back, along with the assessment. It’s not often a small-bit player has the assurance to track down the star before the actual scene just to say hi.

“You do, hunh?”

Pine—Chris-- squeezes Karl’s hand, the one he’s still holding, and a frisson travels up his arm, down his torso, straight to someplace a married man just shouldn’t think of. “Absolutely. I know how to handle all sorts of things.” He lets go of Karl’s hand with no further forwardness, then nods at Karl’s horse.

“You all set with George, there? I can take him back to the barn if you want.”

Karl’s about to protest that there’s no need, but the Pine kid’s already clucked at the horse, who’s raising his head, the gelding whickering in some recognition.

“Hey, boy,” says Pine, petting Karl’s horse’s muzzle in just the right way. “You worked really hard, hunh? You deserve a reward, a really big one when you get back to the barn. You just follow old Chris, I’ll get you all taken care of.” He loops the reins back over George’s neck, gives the horse a firm pat, and then nods at Karl before he heads off toward the barn—the opposite direction from where Karl’s trailer is—a nice courtesy, that, since Karl could sure use a shower.

George follows Pine without any question—like he knows if he goes, he’ll get just what he deserves. Karl can’t help but stare at Pine’s ass in his jeans as he goes, cursing himself for a dirty old man the whole time—but it takes balls for an extra to introduce themselves just like that, and to have an ass like that too…

\--

The scene goes fucking perfect—all the initial filming and action goes perfectly, and then there’s all the closework with the Pine kid, who knows all his lines, not that he’s got all that many, since it’s mostly his job to say “yes” and shoot where Karl’s character tells him, but there’s lots of close work and terse commentary and lots of whiffy lying on top of each other in hot weather while they watch various cast members get “killed” over a long series of hours, the two of them lying there in correct period costumes—lots of leather for Karl, and worse, lots of wool for poor Chris, since kids in those days would have worn suits, even in summer, if they were at church as the scene was set up.

He’s sweating buckets, yet seems cool as a cucumber, at least mentally. In between takes, he tells Karl dirty jokes, and brings him up to date with all the gossip going on with the extras. When Karl offers a joke, the kid’s eyes crinkle, his whole body contorting with laughter as if just his mouth can’t contain his smile. When it’s time to re-set the shot, though, the kid’s entirely focused—as much of a pro as, well, actors three times his age but there’s more to it than that. He’s just a pro, period. When it comes time for the part of the scene where the kid’s got to watch his “father” get shot, the kid does the requisite choking and crying on cue, but it’s more restrained, more steely than Karl would’ve done it, and damnit, it _works_ in a way that knocks Karl’s socks off, because the transition to the kid insisting he be the one to take out the villain who shot his “dad” through the back even as Karl’s character’s ready to pull the trigger the next second because he knows that the kid—he might miss—it’s flawless, intense, a damned fine piece of acting, probably one of the best in the movie, and it’s not much of Karl’s doing, because all he has to do is react. The scene calls for the kid to make the shot—the villain falls down—and Chris’ hand—shaking, a nice touch, falls away from the rifle.

It’s not called for in the scene, but Karl puts one hand on the kid’s black-wool clad-shoulder, marking the moment. Death to life, boy to man—nothing to something—and some _other_ awareness, different from yesterday and yet not unrelated, travels between them in the small belfry, crowded with cameramen, lights, electrical cables. Chris looks over at Karl, sweat pooled on his brow, dripping because it’s already hot and the lights make it worse. He licks his lips, once. It’s an unreadable gesture, and it fits in the context of the scene, because he firms his lips after, like he’s made some decision, and those soft planes of the boy disappear as the afternoon light slants in through the belfry and he’s suddenly all man, despite the physical growing he has yet to do.

“We need to get out of here, you did a good job, kid,” Karl’s character says, as he’s supposed to, but he no longer knows what it means.

Chris’ character nods and the director calls cut—they’re hustled down and out into the air where it’s marginally cooler and he can finally strip off the vest, takes off the hat, let some of the sweat cool, and Chris does the same. The kid’s white cotton shirt underneath is totally plastered with sweat, and out in the sunlight, his color’s not good. He looks pretty peaky, in fact.

“Hey. You alright?”

Chris looks up and nods. “Yeah. Just too hot.” He takes some water from a bucket nearby and dumps it over his head before drinking the next, then looks back at Karl, blinking slowly in the late-afternoon heat-haze. The water’s stuck in drops in his closely-cropped hair, in dew-drops on his-- _really long_ eyelashes over _those are very blue eyes, what is that color_ and now most of his white shirt is plastered wet to his chest, see-through and stuck to hairless, lean, pale flesh beneath. Karl can clearly see broad, flat brown nipples beaded hard from the cold of the water.

He’s going to hell.

“You should drink another,” he gruffs, grabbing an electrolyte drink and then one for himself. He tries to concentrate on hydration, but the kid’s adam’s apple is bobbing out of the corner of his eye, up and down his long, skinny throat, and _jesus_ , it’s like he was put here to tempt Karl by the devil himself.

He occupies himself by undoing the chaps and slinging them over his shoulder, feeling his legs steam through the fabric of his pants. When he looks up, Chris is _assessing_ again.

“Must be hot, all of that leather.”

“You get used to it,” Karl responds, “build up a tolerance.” Like he hasn’t to the way that kid is looking at him.

“Well, thank you,” Chris finally says. “It was an honor working with you, I hope I get to do it again in the future.” He sticks out his hand and Karl shakes it, that same shiver of contact waking his cock and reminding him of how much younger this kid’s got to be despite the way he’s looking at him in a way that’s not hero worship—just plain, simple interest and want.

Karl disengages before he says something he shouldn’t. “You did a really great job, Chris. You really nailed it, you did.”

A shy smile blooms, a toe scuffs in the dirt, and Karl can’t help but smile. Everyone, even scarily self-possessed little genius extras, like to hear they did excellent work. “Thanks,” he replies.

“Well, better get these off to wardrobe, get my ass home so I can shower. I reek to high heaven.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light.

Maybe it’s a trick of seduction.

Maybe it’s just the way he licks his lips as he says it or the way he eyes the cigarette Karl just happens at that moment to light, but there’s a flash of _so fucking hungry_ that isn’t needy at all, just intense want and desire that Karl happens to catch as he looks up to wish the kid luck—but he’s momentarily speechless, his cigarette dangling from fingers before he finally answers.

“I have a tub in my trailer.”

Chris takes this as permission to reach out and take Karl’s cigarette, too. His fingers brush first against the inside of Karl’s wrist, limning the tendons and veins before taking the burning emblem of vice with well practiced, long, slender fingers, and inhaling deeply, eyes closed in pleasure.

His color improves by the second. Guess it was less dehydration and more of a nicotine fit. Or both. When he’s done impressing Karl with how long he can inhale with his pink, perfect, cupid’s bow lips, he lets go, exhales softly, the cloud of the smoke streamed off to the side.

“That would be great,” he says, handing the cigarette back. “Delightful, actually.”

Karl can’t help but laugh as they set off toward his trailer. He knows where this is going, and Jesus, it’s wrong, but he can’t help but tease.

“Who the hell says delightful any more?”

Chris looks at him sideways. “Just because it’s an old-fashioned word doesn’t meant that it’s not entirely apt.”

“ _Apt._ Christ. Are you even in college?”

Chris steals the cigarette once more, this time “accidentally” brushing the back of Karl’s hand as he reaches to share. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. If I’m old enough to act in the movie, that’s surely enough.”

Karl looks at him once, thinking of all the transitions Chris put that character through in just one afternoon. Thinking too of how close, how still they lay in that belfry, waiting as people watched them pretend to get ready to kill men on film as Karl thought about things entirely different about a boy who was only playing a minister’s son—like how the boy smelt like cloves and guitar strings, somehow.

Kids these days. Far wiser than he. He follows him back to Karl’s trailer, since of course Chris already knows its location.

\--

“It’s in there,” he motions, and Chris without any modesty kicks off the black half-boots, peels off the black woolen trousers, drops the jacket and shucks the see-through white shirt, dropping them all on the hard wooden chair next to the small kitchen table that suffices for Karl’s desk and all-purpose work surface. He’s got on white boxers, white socks, and the almost blue paleness of skin is interrupted only by freckles and dirt collected in the runnels of sweat that run down the kid’s back as they shot the scene during the day. He looks once at Karl, still decked in his costume, and all of a sudden, Karl’s the one who is naked, not this-- _not-youngster_ with eyes bluer than the sky darkening outside.

He doesn’t bother batting his lashes, just looks Karl once up and down, then turns and walks into the bathroom. His dick’s long, hard and slender through the sweaty white fabric of his shorts.

Karl makes one short call, over to wardrobe, to bring over Chris’ clothing since “apparently you people don’t offer your heat-prostrated extras showers before they have to go home.” The answer is sheepish, and a PA promises to run the clothes over.

He waits at least that long, and hands over the costume—shed like a skin the kid no longer needs—as he accept the same dun plaid shirt and jeans from the day prior, a small canvas messenger bag whose half-open flap shows a cell-phone, a notebook, a script, and Karl’s not going to pry further.

The water’s still filling the tub as he decides, standing there like a fool.

The chaps hit the floor with a slithering _shush_. The hat sails onto the couch. Boots go into the bucket next to the door—he tries to keep the dust to a minimum. The shirt drapes onto one corner of the hard wooden chair, the pants onto the other and then—briefs, socks, what the hell, that pale skin and blue gaze has already flayed him and he’s the one who’s being childish.

The water’s halfway up the side of the tub and Chris is just closing the tap as Karl enters the closet-like bathroom.

He’s already ducked under the water because his hair is dark, wet, beaded and his skin’s slick and suddenly oh-so-much younger. The tub is cloudy with soap—Ivory, since it’s all they stock at the small general store that’s closest to the remote set and it’s not like Karl cares, he’s not the kind for perfumey things, even if his wife is.

“You know that I’m married,” he says, and it’s stupid, but he feels like it has to be said.

Chris just shakes his head and puts the soap on the small wire shelf overhanging the side. “Get in the tub.”

\--

Cleaning comes first—naturally—and the water is cool but not cold. The kid is thin, and there’s just enough room, somehow, for Karl and Chris both, and Chris watches him as Karl gets settled and Chris takes the soap up again. “Duck under,” he says, and his voice is done changing but isn’t yet as low as it’ll probably be in another two years, maybe three. His adam’s apple bobs as he turns to face Karl, water sloshing as he runs the soap over Karl’s shoulders and hair, then says, “Duck again, rinse,” kneeling up so Karl can count the post-pubescent ribs and faint trail of hair that only trails between navel and groin and gathers just under his armpits. His dick juts straight upward, unwavering in its attention.

Karl does as he’s told, wondering at the kid’s self-possession, at this non-Lolita seduction, because he’s neither humbled nor Humbert, but at the same time, there’s something magnetic and he’s drawn ineluctably forward. He’s dallied before—he’ll do it again, more than likely—but this, somehow, is different.

And then, when he’s soaped down—“you brush down the horses when they’re all lathered?” he asks, and Chris gives him a hint of a smile, a sidewise look and a “maybe,” that’s clearly a yes that leaves Karl suddenly thinking bizarre thoughts about reins he’s never thought in his life, he decides it’s time to take a little bit back.

He takes the soap back, takes hold of one wrist, pulls the kid forward, into his chest. With the water and soap, there’s the slide of skin against skin, a surprised inhalation the kid quickly masks that Karl doesn’t bother as their cocks bump and slide into each other. Despite the cool water, Karl’s been hard ever since the kid gave him that _look_ as he took off his clothes. He nips the kid’s ear, where his character’d been giving instructions all afternoon—where he’d noticed the pale, round perfection, the way the light shone through the translucent peachness of it, and all he’d wanted to do was taste, trail and suck.

He gives in, as Chris braces one hand on the side of the bathtub and changes position, knees straddling Karl so he’s able to rut against Karl with abandon as Karl nibbles and sucks.

Aside from the slosh of the water and the sounds of their breath, tongue and mouths, it’s silent. Karl doesn’t want to say anything else stupid, since apparently Chris is the better-spoken of both, and Chris doesn’t seem to feel the need for any more words than simple commands. Karl finds his adam’s apple, barely covered by stubble, and teases it for a while but reminds himself not to leave marks, not on a set with no girls. He knows nothing about this Chris Pine—and Chris has as much told him he doesn’t want answers.

He knows this, though—Chris has a mouth like an angel—or devil, depends on your point of view. Cigarette-tasting, sure, but underneath he’s sweet like milk and those lips—he kisses back, uses teeth, lips and tongue like they’re weapons, all softness and steel and silk somehow at once. If he’s in a young body, he’s older than Karl in his spirit for the way he’s sucking the life out of Karl with his mouth, and he stares at Karl like he’s trying to memorize this, so Karl finds himself staring back, even as kissing with eyes open is something he’s just never done.

It’s fully surreal, and by the time he wraps his hand around both their cocks to bring them off, sneaks another hand round because he’s feeling split open—too utterly _known_ as this kid somehow sees through him and he needs something back. It’s gratifying, at least, the way the kid arches and whimpers when Karl eases his smallest finger inside him and starts to move it in time with his fist over both of their cocks. “Just feel it,” he dares saying, “you don’t have to control everything, Chris,” and Chris throws his head back and gasps, a white arc curved like the outer edge of the old clawfoot tub but less chipped, not yet worn with age, his veneer still new and shiny. He spurts into the water, shock in the “o” of his mouth and his silent gasp of release, and Karl follows, his own grunt a bit smug but mostly—what—proud?

Karl wants to coat Chris in something—he doesn’t know what—and try to protect him. Instead, he pulls him back toward his chest and they pant for a bit until both their chests calm. With his toes, he digs for the plug, lets the tub drain, and finds the hand-held shower wand, letting it run warm this time as they rinse off. As the sun’s fallen, so has the heat.

It’s not at all awkward when they’re toweling off, but when they get out to the main part of the trailer to dress, it’s much cooler there than Karl had expected. Karl’s fine, but what the kid wore won’t keep him warm, not with him all teen ribs and skin.

“Here,” he says, tossing an Auckland sweatshirt at Chris as he slips on his jeans, shoving his dirty boxers into his bag and going commando. “That plaid thing won’t keep you near warm enough.”

Chris smiles—sweet and so young and Karl tamps down the wondering—and merely says thanks, then answers his cell phone, its shrill faux old-fashioned ring shattering the idyll.

“Hi—no—oh, shit, no, I forgot,” he says, all teenaged horror in his expression. “No. Sorry. Sorry! Mr. Urban was nice enough to let me use the tub in his trailer, it was so hot and I kind of got overheated, and yeah!!! No. I’m there, I’m getting dressed now. I’ll meet you at the gate in five minutes, I promise.”

He turns and looks sorry, but it’s a different kind now as he closes the phone. “My mom. My ride.” He shrugs, sheepish. “I lost track of the time, forgot to tell her to pick me up a little bit later.” He scoops up the bag, looks at Karl’s sweatshirt.

“I have a thousand,” Karl says. “A small souvenir.”

“Je vais souvenir bien,” Chris murmurs, his French mangled and muffled as he tugs the oversized garment over his head. It’s huge on him, and he darts forward, messenger bag dangling from one of his hands.

“Thanks,” he says, then kisses Karl once-- hard, fierce, and fast. “You are delightful.”

His laugh floats back as Karl throws open the door to watch him run away from Karl’s trailer toward the front gate.

Delightful. Indeed.

When he turns back, that dun plaid shirt’s still sitting where Karl had placed it. Picking it up, he brings the shirt to his nose. Cloves and dust and guitar strings. He folds it back up and places it on the small table where he can see it for the rest of the shoot.

\--

Chris enters Karl’s trailer with a short knock, more an announcement than a request for permission. The meet and read-through earlier on in the day had brought that same frisson when their hands touched, and meeting Chris’ eyes, he knew Chris felt it, too.

“And this is…”

“Pine, Chris,” Karl’d said with a smile, and Chris didn’t smile back, just gave him that same look of assessment, before this time he did give him a bit of a smile.

“We’ve actually worked together before,” he’d said to J.J., “years ago now, back when Karl was a cowboy and I was a minister’s son.”

“Sounds kind of naughty,” Zach had chimed in, and Chris, not missing a beat, and still holding Karl’s forearm in greeting, winked and said “Oh, Zach, you have no idea.”

Everyone’d laughed, Karl included, and then they’d gotten on with the reading.

Now, though, Chris walks in not like he owns the damned place but with his hands behind his back, as if he’s got something for Karl.

Karl, feet up on the couch, arches an eyebrow as Chris gives him an only slightly more adult, slightly more cynical version of that same once-over of all those years ago. He still doesn’t care to do all the math. Chris is still Chris.

Chris shakes out the sweatshirt.

“Yours is hanging up in the closet,” Karl says, unfolding himself from the couch. Chris walks to the closet to regard the dun plaid shirt, then takes it out, holds it up to himself.

“I doubt it’d fit anymore.”

Karl, meanwhile, takes the Auckland sweatshirt—Chris has indeed well remembered, he’d thought the kid had just been being nice—and puts it on its own hanger, then hangs it and the plaid shirt next to each other.

When he turns back, Chris is regarding him with an inscrutable gaze.

Karl is still married—but damnit, those shirts hang well in the closet together, and he’d had this feeling of _something_ ever since learning who was going to be Captain Kirk, wondering if Chris would remember.

“You once said something about not asking questions you didn’t want answers to. What if I have questions I’m not quite ready to answer?”

Chris looks at the shirts in the closet—looks at the picture of Hunter and Indy out on the counter, but not one of his wife, because hell, he and Nat and the shit that she pulls half the time…. “I know you’re still married.”

And then he answers Karl’s question, assaulting Karl’s mouth with a mouth of milk and cigarette ash, soft as a petal and as short as a last dying breath.

“When you know the answer to your questions, or want to set them aside for a while, there’s more where that came from. And room in my closet. I used to like to sleep in that sweatshirt.”

He kisses Karl again, fast, hard, full of promise, and doesn’t smile as he whispers in Karl’s ear—“Just feel it, Karl. You can’t control everything.”

“Someone wise tell you that once?” he asks, and Chris’ eyes smile, even as his mouth remains serious.

“Someone delightful,” he murmurs, mischief making his mouth curve just a bit. Karl’s going to make it his job to make the kid grin, he’s decided.

Karl smiles and kisses him back— he can ask the hard questions tomorrow. For now, there’s Chris’ mouth to address.  



End file.
